After rounding Aden it yet took them several more days to make their way up the Persian Gulf, uncharted waters for any member of the regiment. The land which came into sight as they closed the Mesopotamian coast was flat and featureless, seeming to stretch for ever in swampy profusion, but as they steamed up the Shatt al Arab they saw evidence of a great deal of fertility, with date palm plantations predominating.
Basra itself was surprisingly large, situated on the west bank of the Shatt and only just downstream of the huge Hawr al Hammar lake, where the Tigris and the Euphrates merged to form the great swamp which was their delta. It was a fairly typical Muslim community, in its mosques and minarets, its veiled women, its flies and dogs and ragged little boys, and its curiosity; vast crowds gathered to watch the regiment disembarking and listen to the band playing the march from Aida.
It was also very hot.
Liaison officers were waiting for the dragoons, and they walked their horses off behind the band to their allotted quarters just outside the town. Murdoch left Billy Prendergast in command while he was hurried straightaway to the office of Sir Stanley Maude, who had himself just arrived, it turned out.
Maude was a bold-featured man who still wore a massive Victorian moustache. There could be no doubting his ability or his powers of decision, however. ‘Mackinder!’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Thank God you’ve arrived. Now, if only some of these other troops they’ve promised me were to turn up...everything happens with such damned slowness. At least we know Townshend is all right for the time being.’
‘Are we in contact with him, sir?’
‘At the moment, no. But George Nixon, whom I’ve replaced, made a sortie up the Tigris last month with such troops as he had. He didn’t get very close to Kut and took a bit of a beating, in fact, but he seems to have managed to exchange heliograph signals with the Kut garrison, on the basis of which he assured me, before leaving, that Townsend can hold out for another six months.’
Murdoch pulled his nose.
‘Oh, quite,’ Maude agreed. ‘Six months is a hell of a long time, and Nixon is a confounded optimist. But what the devil can I do? Nixon estimates there are some sixty thousand Turks around Kut, and even more between Kut and Baghdad. And they are officered by Germans. Townshend has perhaps nine thousand British and Indian. I have two under-strength Indian divisions, and now your dragoons. Say twenty thousand men. We are not going to relieve Townshend by getting ourselves chopped up by a vastly superior Turkish force. He has just got to hold out until the rest of the troops I have asked for are received.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘My orders?’
‘Get your men fighting fit, first. Then you can commence probing up the river.’ He pointed. ‘None of your heroics, Colonel Mackinder. I want information, nothing more. I want to open communication with Townshend, if that is possible, by any means. If you can get close enough to use your heliograph, do so; I don’t think Townshend has radio, or if he does, it’s not working for some reason. I want accurate information as to Turkish strength and morale.’ He grinned. ‘And I want to remind the Turks, and the Arabs, of our presence.’
*
Murdoch had both men and horses hard at work training the following morning. The long sea journey had made them soft, and of course it was necessary to get them acclimatized to the heat as rapidly as possible — and to the increased hygiene necessary for survival in the tropical Middle East. Heat stroke caused a wave of sickness, and despite the most stringent regulations the drinking of unboiled water produced an equal number of dysentery cases. Fortunately most occurrences of both of these illnesses were minor, and a lesson once learned was not forgotten — it was too unpleasant to risk again. There was also the problem of persuading the men only to visit the bazaars in groups of at least half a dozen, as there was undoubtedly much pro-Turkish feeling amongst the Arabs — unlike farther west, where reports indicated that the Arabs of the Saudi Peninsula might well fight alongside the British if encouraged sufficiently. And equally, as usual, he had to attempt to control the incidence of VD amongst the troopers.
Murdoch spent much time with General George Gorringe, who was also working hard to restore his two Indian divisions to a capable fighting force — with which, presumably, the dragoons would be operating when the British were able to take the offensive. The previous month the Indians had been led by their then commander, General Aylmer, in a frontal assault against the Turkish positions. That had been before General Maude had replaced Nixon as overall Commander-in-Chief. The assault, apparently based on a total contempt for the fighting ability of the Turks, had been resoundingly repulsed. Now they were licking their wounds and awaiting replacements, which dribbled in with every ship from Bombay. The new arrivals were eager enough but too many of them were raw recruits; and unlike the British, they accepted such misfortunes as dysentery, and even its more severe cousin cholera, as a fact of life. It became apparent to Murdoch that, even without governmental dilatoriness, the march to the relief of Kut-al-Amara was going to be long delayed.
‘Our business,’ he told his officers, ‘is reconnaissance in force until the advance is ready, and if possible, communication with the besieged army. It is not our business to engage the enemy at this time except in pursuance of such objectives. We are the only cavalry this army possesses, and therefore we must preserve our strength. So, no heroics. We march at dawn.’
Next morning the guides arrived, three Arabs who, he was assured, were utterly faithful to the British cause. Their head was named Mulai. Immediately the regiment moved out. Murdoch followed a simple plan of having one troop, accompanied by one guide, two miles in front of the regiment, with orders to retire if meeting any serious opposition. Another troop, with the second guide, flank-marched a similar distance away to the east; their left flank was covered by the Tigris itself. Keeping Mulai with the main body was a means of ensuring the ‘utter faithfulness’ of the Arabs.
The men were in their usual high spirits as they formed a long column of twos, winding their way north. Murdoch limited them to fifteen miles a day, and it was eight days before they arrived at Amara, which they found to be a sizeable town, and held by a brigade of Indians. Not much activity out there,’ said the brigadier-general. ‘The Turks fight better on the defensive, and are happy to let our chaps do the pushing. Not that we have anything to push with.’
His pessimism was typical of the whole Mesopotamian army, which undoubtedly felt itself a forgotten force.
‘Reinforcements are on their way,’ Murdoch assured him. ‘Any word from Kut?’
‘A messenger got through last week. Spent four days in the river, poor devil. Says things are getting a bit tight.’
‘I can imagine.’ Six months, he thought. Too long.
The regiment moved on next day. They were now within seventy miles of the beleaguered town, and had encountered no opposition, but that afternoon the advance guard was fired upon by a Turkish patrol. Murdoch immediately divided the regiment into squadrons, and himself led B Squadron, Captain Lowndes’s, in a frontal assault upon the patrol, while Ramage took A Squadron by the river and Hunter led C Squadron in a sweep through the desert. Murdoch’s objective was prisoners, but the Turks had disappeared.
Next day he probed again, and this time encountered real opposition in the form of a fortified position supported by machine guns. Several men were hit, one badly. He hastily drew his own men back out of range and encamped them in the best defensive position he could find, with the river forming a barrier to the west, and some low hills to the north and east. He mounted his machine guns and sat out the night, ready to ride out should he be counter-attacked by a superior force. But no enemy was seen or heard.
Next morning he and Prendergast surveyed the desert in front of them through their glasses. Because it was just desert, except close to the river, which, brown and sluggish, wound its way through the occasional date plantation. There were people by the river, Arabs who came up to gaze at the British soldiers. Murdoch
enticed some of them into the camp, told the guides to find out what they could.
‘Many soldiers to the north, effendi,’ said Mulai.
‘How many is many?’
More conversation.
‘As many as the sands of the desert,’ Mulai said.
‘Which could mean anything,’ Prendergast remarked.
‘Ask him about Kut,’ Murdoch said.
‘Kut is entirely surrounded, effendi,’ Mulai said.
‘Is there any chance of us getting close enough to use the heliograph?’
‘These men do not think so, effendi.’
‘At least the garrison is still holding out,’ Prendergast said.
‘But we don’t know for how long. I wonder if Nixon did get any messages through. According to the brigadier in Amara things aren’t going so well.’ Murdoch scratched his head. ‘I’m damned if I can see what we are going to do.’
He opted to remain encamped for a day or two longer, sending a troop on patrol well into the eastern desert to see if there was a way round, although Mulai assured him that the only way an army, even a regiment, could move in this country was along the line of the rivers. That made sense. It also reduced warfare to a very straightforward affair. Not that Murdoch believed it need be quite as simple as that, given resolute command.
But it was not his business to anticipate General Maude’s dispositions and in any event the patrol returned in three days to say that they had again encountered Turkish entrenchments; the way to Kut was very definitely barred. Certainly the town was not going to be relieved without a very much larger army than was at present available — as Maude had recognized. After three further days of sending patrols north to shoot up any Turks they might encounter, in the hopes of enticing the enemy to move against his position and thus yield some prisoners and perhaps some more information, he gave the orders to break camp on the following day and return towards Amara and Basra. He had sent out the usual patrol, and that afternoon, as he had a cup of tea with Prendergast and Llewellyn, it returned. Its commander, Lieutenant Colin Destry, hurried up to them. ‘There are people over there, sir.’
‘People?’ Murdoch put down his tea cup. ‘You mean Turks?’
‘Well, I don’t think so, exactly, sir. Not soldiers. My guide says it’s a caravan. I would say he’s right. A lot of wagons. With camels.’
‘Going where?’
‘Well, sir, I didn’t approach them. They were travelling from north to south.’
Murdoch looked at Prendergast. ‘A bloody caravan, ambling along as if there was no war on?’
‘And coming from the north,’ Prendergast said.
‘We’ll have to have a chat with these chaps. Summon Captain Lowndes, Mr Destry. I want B Squadron to move out, arrest the caravan, and bring it in this direction.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Like all the regiment, Destry was desperate to see some action.
‘But no bloodshed, unless resistance is offered,’ Murdoch said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Destry repeated, and hurried off to find his superior.
‘You don’t think it could be some kind of a trap?’ the padre wondered.
‘I don’t propose to chance that. Sound assembly.’
The regiment alerted, Murdoch himself took command of A Squadron, and with Ramage rode out to the north. Prendergast was left in command of the camp with all six machine guns. There was a pleasant sense of imminent action at last as A Squadron cantered to the north for several miles, without seeing a soul other than the occasional Arab, and then swung back to the east. ‘If it is a trap,’ Murdoch remarked to Ramage, ‘then it’s a damned deep one.’
They topped a shallow rise and looked down on the caravan, surrounded by Lowndes’s B Squadron, making its way west to the river. ‘Those people just have to have information.’
They returned to camp, arriving at the same time as the caravan, which Lowndes was making pitch their tents and tether their goats and camels outside the military perimeter. ‘Give my compliments to Captain Lowndes, Mr Manly-Smith,’ Murdoch said. ‘And inform him I would like to interview the head person, or people, of that lot as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Manly-Smith trotted off.
Murdoch returned to his tent, had a bath in Reynolds’ tin tub — being camped next to the river meant they could use all the water they wished — and then changed into a fresh uniform; he knew the value of impressing either Arab or Turk. Prendergast had also changed, and together, in all the glory of their polished brown boots, gleaming spurs, dark brown jackets and khaki breeches, Sam Browne belts, revolvers and swords, medal ribbons and smart topees, they awaited the arrival of the caravan master...and saw, moving sedately towards them on the backs of several camels, a retinue of veiled women.
*
Murdoch stood up, and Prendergast did likewise. The women were escorted by Captain Lowndes and Lieutenant Destry, who were on foot, and were accompanied, also on foot, by Arab grooms.
‘What the devil is all this?’ Murdoch barked.
Lowndes looked embarrassed. ‘You asked to see...well, the caravan boss, sir.’
‘A bunch of women?’
‘A woman, sir. A princess.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Murdoch snapped. ‘Every bloody tart in Mesopotamia claims she’s a princess.’
The lead camel dropped to its knees, and the woman who had been riding it stepped down with a swirl of white haik which allowed a glimpse of her sandals and exquisitely formed pale brown feet. ‘But I am not a bloody tart, Colonel,’ she said.
Murdoch was entirely taken aback, both by her English, which was perfect, and by the realization that she was by no means old. He could see nothing of her save her hands and her forehead, as her yashmak entirely concealed her face —but there were no wrinkles to be seen, and the hands were young and strong. As had been her feet and her movements.
He was uncomfortably aware that a considerable number of his men had gathered to oversee the arrival of the women, and that most of them had heard the exchange.
‘You’ll forgive me, madam,’ he said. ‘I did not know you spoke English.’
‘Of course I speak English,’ she said, advancing towards him. ‘I am the Princess Chand Bibi ibn Shere ibn Ali ibn Muhammad.’
‘Ah,’ Murdoch said, none the wiser, except that she seemed to have an impressive lineage. But Prendergast was waggling his eyebrows; he had served with the regiment in India.
‘And you?’ she inquired, standing in front of him.
He inhaled a subtle perfume, gazed into magnificent black eyes, and became acutely aware that it was a very long time since he had held any woman save his wife in his arms —and that it was several weeks since he had held Lee. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Murdoch Mackinder, Commanding Officer, the Royal Western Dragoon Guards,’ he replied.
‘The Royal Western...’ The yashmak fluttered, to suggest that she might have smiled. ‘I thought your pennons were familiar. And Mackinder! How quaint.’ She held out a heavily ringed hand. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Colonel Mackinder.’
‘The pleasure is mine, madam.’ Murdoch took the fingers, trying not to evaluate the rubies and sapphires that glittered on them, indicated the camp chairs. Will you take tea?’
‘Thank you.’ The princess spoke to her ladies in Arabic, and they, having also stepped down, formed a little group. The Arab grooms who had followed them hobbled the camels.
Murdoch looked at Lowndes and Destry. ‘Dismissed, with thanks, gentlemen. And Captain Lowndes, do find something for those fellows to do.’
Lowndes saluted and hurried off to disperse the gawking troopers.
‘Shall I stay?’ Prendergast whispered.
‘Do you know the lady?’
‘No. But I knew her father. Or at least, of him. Tough old bird. Had a habit of mutilating his prisoners.’
‘Do you suppose I need chaperoning?’
‘Could be. I wonder what she’s like beneath all that clobber?’
‘We
ll, I am not about to find out. I’ll chat her up. Don’t go too far.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Prendergast said, somewhat enviously, and hurried off.
Murdoch sat in the other camp chair, acutely aware that he was being watched by at least six hundred pairs of eyes. Reynolds poured tea.
‘Your men have been without women for too long,’ Chand Bibi remarked.
‘I’m afraid that’s true. I’m sorry they have been staring.’
‘You also have been without a woman for a long time.’ Once again Murdoch looked into those black eyes.
‘Perhaps I am more used to it. Now, madam, may I ask what is the purpose of your caravan?’
‘No, Colonel,’ she said. ‘You may not ask. Not until you have told me by what right you have arrested me and my people.’
Her effrontery was beginning to irritate him. ‘By the right of conquest,’ he told her.
‘Conquest? Her contempt was evident.
‘We are in the process of conquering this land, madam,’ he said. ‘I should have thought that would have been obvious. And you are traversing it, from our enemies’ position to our own, without permission. I am therefore entirely in my rights to arrest you. How severe that arrest will be depends on how much you are prepared to cooperate with me.’
The black eyes flashed at him. ‘You are very bold, Colonel Mackinder, when it comes to browbeating women.’ Then her gaze drifted to the medal ribbons on his jacket. ‘But then, perhaps you are just very bold,’ she added in a softer tone. ‘I have never met a holder of the Victoria Cross before. But I have nothing to do with you and the Turks and your wars. I am the Princess Chand Bibi ibn Shere ibn Ali ibn Muhammad. My father is Shere Khan, Sheikh of the Mahsuds in the valley of the Kurram. Perhaps you have heard of him.’
‘Ah,’ Murdoch said. ‘The North West Frontier of India. That is how you knew of my regiment.’
‘My father has fought against the Royal Western Dragoons, Colonel. But not, perhaps, these men.’
It was half a question. ‘I shouldn’t think so. The regiment hasn’t been in India for ten years.’
The Command Page 7
